


This Year, Next Year

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [26]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Christmas, Domesiticity, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Found Families, Grief, Illness, M/M, Nostalgia, Slash, wonder(ful) years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9289829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Peter, Neal and Peter's parents, Joe and Cathy Burke, are at Peter and Neal's vacation house in Vermont to celebrate Christmas.  Peter's mother is sick, but Peter doesn't know how bad it really is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the 2014 White Collar Hurt Comfort Advent on [](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/profile)[whitecollarhc](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/). Thank you, my dear friend [](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[kanarek13](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/), for running this challenge again and for your patience. This was due on the 23rd.

**Vermont - Christmas Eve Morning, 2009**

"Good morning, Neal."

Cathy had just come into the kitchen, wrapped in the warm cashmere robe that Neal had given her a few years ago. Neal looked up from his laptop. Even though it was Christmas and he and Peter were technically on vacation until the third of January, he still needed to check his work email. The agreement was that the office mail accounts were turned off on their cellphones and they could only check for messages when no one else was around. It was a little after eight, but he'd been up for a couple of hours already, having seen Peter and Uncle Joe off on their quest for the perfect Christmas tree.

"Good morning to you, too." He closed the laptop and went to give her a hug. Of all the women in his life, and there really weren't many, she was the most precious of all.

She kissed his cheek as he held her, her lips dry and papery. Cathy - Catherine Burke, Peter's mother - felt so frail in his arms. Neal fought the urge to pick her up and carry her back to bed, to bring her a hearty breakfast and sit and watch as she ate every mouthful. But he didn't. "Why are you up so early? It's barely eight o'clock."

She gave him a wry smile. "When you get to my age, you find you really don't need that much sleep anymore."

Neal didn't think that was really the reason. "Can I get you anything, Cathy? Something to eat?" On his thirty-fifth birthday, she had told him that since he was a grown man, it was okay to drop the honorific "aunt" and "uncle". It took a while for him to get used to calling her just Cathy, and he was never able to call Peter's father, Joe.

"No, I can wait for the boys to come back. We'll all have breakfast together. But I'll have a cup of coffee now, if you've got."

"Me, not have coffee? You have to be kidding."

"That's true - sometimes I think you and Peter have pure caffeine in your veins instead of blood."

Neal poured Cathy a cup and fixed it how he knew she liked it.

"Do you know when the boys left?"

"Peter and Uncle Joe left before dawn. They are doing manly father-son things out in the woods, like cutting down a tree." Neal smiled. "Peter asked me if I wanted to come, but I think he was grateful that I declined."

Cathy smiled. "When Peter was a very little boy, years before you knew him, we'd go up to my grandparents' place for Christmas - it was near Syracuse. Four generations of men would go tramping through the woods to find the perfect tree."

Neal smiled. "Peter told me about that - your grandfather, your father, Uncle Joe and Peter."

Cathy nodded. "It was a sight to see - especially the first year he was old enough to go out. My grandfather was a big man, he looked like Santa Claus, my dad was a lot like Peter is now, tall and rangy. And of course Joe. And Peter, who was all of four years old, so eager to be with all of the men. We'd bundled him up, and between the boots and the snowsuit and the coat, he could barely move. That first year, it had started snowing before Thanksgiving and didn't stop until just before Christmas. There was six feet on the ground, twice that in the drifts, and poor little Peter couldn't move."

"I've seen some pictures. Peter was adorable. There was one where he's covered in snow from head to toe and so bundled up he could barely walk."

"My little snowman." Cathy's smile was melancholy. "The years go by so fast." She gazed out the window. "I wouldn't turn back the clock or change anything, but I'd give anything to have my little boy back for just a moment. Just to hold one more time." She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes.

"Hey, hey." Neal sat down next to her, hugging her gently. "No crying, please." He tried to keep his tone light, to humor Cathy out of her sadness. "I'm a contagious crier, you know that."

She rested her head against his shoulder. "Yeah, I know. I've seen what happens when you watch 'It's a Wonderful Life'. It's not pretty."

"No, it's not." Neal smiled and pressed a kiss against Cathy's forehead, just below the pink turban that covered her head. The chemo that was killing the cancer in her blood had taken her hair. As she had for the first two rounds of chemo, Cathy had gone to Joe's barber and asked him to shave it all off. It was just easier to deal with all at once.

Cathy extracted herself from Neal's embrace. "What can I do?"

"I was thinking about a full spread for breakfast. Omelets, pancakes, bacon, sausage - everything that the doctors don't want you to eat, but perfect for a pre-tree decorating meal. I've got most everything prepped for when Peter and Uncle Joe come back, but would love a hand putting together a fruit compote."

"Sounds good. Put me to work."

Neal took out containers of fresh fruit he'd purchased in the city and brought up here. There really wasn't a lot of effort needed for the dish, but if Cathy wanted to feel useful, he'd let her do what she could.

Neal loved this place. It was nothing he'd ever imagined owning, but now that he did, he didn't know what he would do without it. About seven years ago, on a whim, he'd asked a friend about vacation properties. Not a timeshare, but a place he and Peter could escape to when the city seemed too much. Vermont seemed like the perfect location, especially since it was within easy driving distance of the city.

Peter had been doubtful when Neal scooped up a fifty-acre parcel in the Green Mountains. He'd been even more doubtful when Neal told him that they'd have to bring in all of the utilities themselves - power, water, internet. At least Peter had kept his doubts to himself when Neal started consulting architects and engineers. It had taken a year, from start to finish, to build Mr. Caffrey's dream home, but in the end, Peter had had to agree that the results were worth it.

After the first year, Neal had realized that having this place sit empty for most of the year wasn't the wisest move. He'd made arrangements with a property management company and had the place rented for vacationers for forty or so weeks a year. The management company kept trying to convince him that he was leaving a lot of money on the table by not renting during the holidays, but it was never about the money for him. He had too much of that anyway.

"How is this?" Cathy brought his attention back to the here and now. Everything had been perfectly cut - even the citrus, which she'd cut into supremes. That was a trick that Neal never managed without cutting himself. Everything was mixed in a large serving bowl.

"Perfect." Cathy started to clean up, but Neal gently shooed her away. "Let me take care of this."

She protested. "I'm not helpless, you know."

"I know." Neal put the waste into the composting bin, the cutting board in the sink, and was about to start washing the knives Cathy had used.

"I just have cancer."

Neal took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if he could shut out this reality because no one _just_ had cancer. "I know," he repeated.

"Joe treats me like spun glass, like I'll break if I do anything more strenuous than walk from my bed to my chair."  
  
Neal looked at Cathy and tried to see beyond the fragile exterior to the woman with a will like iron and a heart of a lioness. Yes, those qualities were still there. He managed a smile. "But you're my guest and guests don't do the dishes."

Cathy opened her mouth to argue, but apparently decided better.

Neal finished cleaning up, poured himself a fresh cup, and sat down next to Cathy. There was something he'd wanted to ask her for a while, and now seemed appropriate. "Can I ask you a question?"

"If you have to ask if you can ask, then it must be important."

Neal spoke before he could chicken out. "Do you ever regret that we couldn't give you grandchildren?"

Cathy gave him a searching look. "What brought this on?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't really know. I think about it sometimes. What our lives would be like if Peter and I had children."

"It's not too late, you know. You could always get a surrogate and it's not like either of you have biological clocks to worry about." Cathy chuckled.

Neal shook his head. "No, we don't - not like women do. But I don't think either of us is suited to fatherhood. Not with our careers, not at our age." Neal did some simple mental arithmetic. "Best case scenario, both Peter and I would be eligible for Social Security when our theoretical offspring would be starting college."

"True. But it's not so unusual these days."

"No, it isn't. But you haven't answered my question, though."

Cathy picked up his hand and threaded her fingers through his. "It's a question that doesn't have an easy answer. Yes - of course I would have loved to have had grandchildren to spoil, but that's only part of what you asked. You want to know if I regret the lack. If I regretted it, it would mean that I regretted Peter and who he is. That I regretted you. That I regretted the happiness you've given my son for more than twenty-five years. And the happiness he's given you. That's just as important."

Neal was about to say that maybe "regret" was the wrong word, but maybe it wasn't. Peter's parents had been the anchors of his life since he was twelve, since he'd run away from his mother's denial, his stepfather's sexual abuse. They'd become the two people he knew he could always rely on, and if there had been one cloud to darken the love he bore for Peter back when they were so young, it was the potential loss of their love.

They'd given him so much that sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if there was more that he could have done to repay their love.

"I can almost hear your thoughts, Neal." Cathy squeezed his hand. "You've given me and Joe so much, don't ever doubt that - just by loving Peter, giving him your heart and holding his. And to get back to your question, let me just say this. If Peter had been in a more 'traditional' relationship, there would have been no guarantee of grandchildren, either."

"But it would have been more likely than not."

"Who's to say? I never told you, but I had nine miscarriages before Peter was born. Joe and I had given up. I couldn't bear the heartbreak anymore. When Peter was born, I called him our miracle. And you're our miracle, too." Cathy kissed his cheek. "Don't ever forget that."

Neal blinked against the sudden emotion. "Thank you." He took a deep breath to get some control. "Thank you for everything."

Cathy gave his hand another squeeze before letting go. "You mean the world to us. You, Neal Caffrey. Don't ever forget that."

Neal ducked his head and tried not to let the emotions swamp over him.

Cathy, mercifully, changed the subject. "How much longer do you think they'll be?"

Neal looked at the clock; it was a quarter to nine. "No clue. How long does it take to pick out a Christmas tree?"

"Well, I do remember one year that it took the men the best part of five hours. It wasn't just the tree picking, it was the cutting and the hauling. And, of course, the stopping and having something to drink. To ward off the cold they'd say."

"Alcohol doesn't really warm you up."

"No, it doesn't, but that didn't seem to matter to them." Cathy started to get up, but something went wrong and she collapsed, taking the chair with her.

"Cathy!" Neal dropped to the floor and carefully lifted the chair away. "Are you okay?"

She moaned and Neal didn't know what to do. He cursed the remoteness of the cabin, the weather, the lack of any nearby medical facilities. He checked for a pulse and it was fast, but Neal wasn't a doctor and didn't know what that meant. Too many seconds later, Cathy opened her eyes.

"What happened?" She sounded almost normal.

"You fainted."

She tried to get into a sitting position. "Help me up."

Neal managed to get his arms under Cathy's shoulders and legs. "Just relax and let me pick you up." She felt too light, almost insubstantial, as he carried her into the den and set her down on one of the couches. Neal covered her with a blanket. "Are you okay?" It seemed like such a stupid question to ask.

"I'm fine. I think I just stood up too quickly. I got dizzy."

Neal wasn't sure he agreed with that. Cathy had lost consciousness for at least a minute, but arguing seemed pointless. "Any bruises? That floor's kind of hard." He stared into her eyes, trying to see if her pupils were even, if she had a concussion.

"I'm okay, Neal." Cathy reached out and patted his arm.

"Maybe we should go home, get you to a doctor."

"Neal, it's Christmas Eve, my doctor doesn't work on Christmas Eve. I have no desire to spend the day in the Emergency Room. There's nothing they can do to fix what's wrong me."

Those last words were said as if she didn't want Neal to hear them. But he did. "What do you mean?"

Cathy pulled her hand back and stuck it under the blanket. She turned her face away, and in the bright morning light that reflected off the snow and streamed through the windows, Neal could see just how frail she'd become.

"Cathy?" Neal felt himself shaking. It had been a long time since he'd been this afraid of anything. "What's going on?"

"I'm on my third round of chemo, Neal. After the first round, I was in remission for three years. The second round gave me a year." Cathy looked at him and she started to sob. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"This round isn't working." It wasn't a question.

"My numbers keep going in the wrong direction. Each time I get the chemo, I feel like I want to die. The pain is indescribable, Neal. The weakness, the nausea. I'm taking poison to keep me alive, and it's killing me." Cathy sobbed those last words.

Neal gathered her into his arms and this time didn't try to hold back his tears. "Isn't there anything else? Another bone marrow transplant? Other drugs?"

Cathy shook her head. "No. I'm seventy-three years old, Neal. The options were always very limited. Now, there are none."

"None?" Neal couldn't believe that.

"No. Not for what I have, not at my age. The chemo isn't working, it’s making me terribly sick. My hands and feet are numb half of the time. I get so weak I can barely stand. I want to enjoy what little time I have left, as much as I can."

Inside his head, he was screaming words of denial. Of course he knew that Cathy had been fighting against the odds, but she seemed to have beaten them, not once, but twice. Breaking down like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum wouldn't do her any good. He took a deep breath and asked, "How long?"

"Best case, four or five months. Worst, about three. If I finish this round of chemo, if I survive it, maybe six months. But they won't be good ones. My oncologist wants me hospitalized if I go forward. If I don't, I'll be in hospice care. Nothing more than palliative treatment."

Neal sucked in his breath. He hadn't realized that the end was so close. "It's not fair." The words burst out of him in a painful sob.

"No, it's not. I've had an argument with God about fairness quite a few times, but I've never gotten an answer."

Neal hadn't felt like this when his own mother died. There was still too much pain and resentment. The breach between him and Ellen had never fully healed and while Neal had regretted the distance between them, that distance had muted the loss. This was like a knife to his heart.

"What can I do?"

Cathy gave him a sad smile. "I asked Joe not to say anything to Peter. To lie, if he has to. I want this Christmas to be a happy one for him. I wanted it to be happy for the both of you, but fate seemed to have intervened a little while ago. Please don't tell Peter. We'll tell him after the New Year. I don't want him to associate Christmas with my impending death. Can you do that for me?"

Neal let out a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes, I can. I will."

"Thank you." Cathy leaned back against the couch, her face serene, beautiful despite the ravages of her illness. "Thank you, Neal."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter had gotten up before dawn, feeling both antsy and excited. Both bizarre sensations. He was forty-five years old, well past the age when he should be jazzed about going out with his dad to cut down a Christmas tree. But he was, and he'd be damned if he'd feel ashamed of his emotions.

Neal was just waking up when he got out of the shower. "You sure you don't want to come with us?"

"To tramp through the snow for hours, arguing the merits of a bunch of trees that really all look alike? Nah. I'll stay here, where it's nice and warm."

Peter almost called Neal soft and lazy, but stopped himself. Not only was it a bad joke, because there was nothing soft or lazy about his partner, but there was a very good reason for him to stay behind. "Actually, I'm glad you don't want to come. Someone should be here when my mom gets up."

Neal just nodded, clearly understanding everything that he wasn't saying. Peter was worried and getting more worried every day. This was the third time that his mother had come out of remission and he knew that the odds were not in her favor. She seemed okay, always telling him that she was feeling strong and that she was going to beat this again.

Peter desperately needed to believe that.

But yesterday, seeing his mother for the first time in over a month, was like a punch in the gut. She had lost a lot of weight, but it was more than that. That had happened during the other rounds of chemo as well. This time, it seemed different. She seemed almost insubstantial, as if light would shine right through her.

And yet, she had been a lively companion on the ride to Vermont. They'd made the usual pit stops for gas and health breaks, and she was fine. So maybe he was worrying about nothing.

His dad was already up and in the kitchen, pouring a tar-like beverage into two large thermoses. "You probably don't remember when we did this when you were a little boy. We used to add whiskey to the hot coffee."

Peter laughed. "I certainly do. I remember mom and grandma yelling at you and grandpa and great-granddad for coming home drunk."

His dad laughed. "Those were the days. At least we didn't spike your hot cider."

Peter licked his lips, instantly recalling the taste of apple and cinnamon and nutmeg. "Haven't had that in years. Maybe I'll drive into town this afternoon and see if they have any." Or maybe not. The nearest town was twenty minutes away.

They headed out on snowmobiles to a small stand of Douglas firs that had come with the property. It wasn't a Christmas tree farm, per se, but it might as well have been. The pine trees were perfectly shaped and spaced, and a local business cut a dozen trees in mid-November and planted saplings in the spring. It seemed that whatever Neal touched turned to gold.

Peter had been skeptical when Neal had purchased the property and been appalled at the amount of money he'd spent on the house, but he had to admit that it was as perfect a place for them as their Riverside duplex. It would take decades to recoup the building costs from the rental income, but it wasn't purchased or built as an investment.

They zipped through the fields, the sound of the engines almost too loud in this pristine environment. The stand of trees was ahead and Peter slowed down and cruised to a stop, his dad a few yards behind him. It was too dangerous to take the snowmobiles into the woods. They'd walk from here.

His dad carried the saw and Peter hefted the two thermoses as they tramped through the woods.

His dad commented, "It's like that poem - by Robert Frost. You must remember it?"

"Of course I do. 'Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.' I had to memorize it for seventh grade English class."

"And didn't you perform it at some school recital?"

"Yeah." He took a breath and closed his eyes.

_Whose woods these are I think I know._  
His house is in the village though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow.  


Peter shook his head and laughed. "It feels like just yesterday I was standing in the auditorium, waiting for my turn to go."

"Didn't Neal have to do something?"

"Yeah, he did. He got lucky and was assigned to recite 'Casey at the Bat'. I remember being so jealous."

"You two weren't really friends yet, were you?"

"No, not until the spring." Not until that Little League game. "I had always liked Neal, but we hadn't really ever talked."

"You're a year older than him. I guess, at that age, it must have made a big difference."

"It did - and Neal kind of intimidated me." Peter laughed again. It seemed like such an odd thing.

"He did? I didn't know that."

"Yeah. Even when we were kids, Neal was really smart. He'd skipped a grade and was still in all of the advanced classes. He was taking two languages when everyone else could barely handle one. And it was weird too, that his father had been killed. That made him even more different, too."

"I wonder what would have happened if you hadn't overheard that sonofabitch Adler yelling at Neal that day, after the ball game."

"I don't know." The thought had occurred to him more than once over the past twenty or so years. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't given me that push, told me to go be a friend."

His dad looked at him, a sweet smile on his face. "You wanted to do something, you just weren't sure what to do."

Peter nodded. "I never thought I'd be grateful to Vincent Adler, but in a way, I have to be. If just for that one horrible moment that changed my life."

"And changed Neal's, too."

Peter stopped and turned to his dad. "I'm not great with words and sometimes - a lot of the time - I get too caught up in my own life, but I want to tell you that everything I have, everything Neal and I have, is because of you and mom and the love that you've given us." He took a deep breath, feeling a little bit unmanned. "I wouldn't be who I am if not for you. For your wisdom, your love and your patience."

His dad dropped the saw in the snow and wrapped his arms around him. "Ah, Peter, my boy. My beautiful child. You've made _me_ a better man, too. I had lost so much, once - so much because of hatred and intolerance. Sometimes, the pain was almost unbearable, because I could never talk about it. Never ashamed, but afraid. You taught me not to be afraid. I look at you and see everything that my brother might have been. And so much more." He kissed Peter's cheek and Peter could feel the dampness - his own tears and his father's.

His dad let go and gave a watery chuckle. "So much for doing manly men type things. We stand here, cry and hug each other."

Peter slung an arm around his father's shoulders. "Only real men know how to cry. You taught me that, too."

His dad laughed. "That's true. You mom always said I was the most emotional man she ever met, and that's why she married me." He picked up the saw and started walking through the woods. Peter followed and they made a pretense of looking at the trees.

"How is mom doing?"

His dad paused. "What do you mean?"

"She doesn't look good."

"She's having chemo again; it's not easy."

Peter had the feeling his father was deflecting. "I know that, but this time, she looks like she's lost a lot more weight than the last two times."

His father didn't look at him, instead examining the branches of the tree in front of him. "She has, but it's not unusual."

"Dad?"

"She'll be all right. She's beaten it before. She'll beat it again." He was still talking to that damn tree.

"Look at me, dad."

His father finally turned around. "Would I lie to you? Have I ever lied to you?"

Peter wasn't sure and his father, usually so easy to read, was suddenly stone-faced. "No, you've never lied to me, but I'm worried."

"I know you are, and I am too. But your mom's got some of the best cancer doctors in the world on her treatment team. I trust them."

Peter nodded, and yet he couldn't help but hear all of the words his dad wasn't saying. He had to change the subject before his heart broke. "What do you think of this one?" Peter pointed at the tree his dad had been examining.

"The lower branches are too big, and I don't think it'll fit in the living room."

It took another hour before they settled on a reasonably acceptable specimen, and another forty minutes of Peter trying to saw the trunk.

"It's a good thing you're an FBI agent, you'd make a lousy lumberjack."

Peter gave his dad, who was just standing there, arms folded across his chest, a dirty look. "And you worked in construction for almost forty years. Maybe you'd like to show me how it's done?"

"Two words: power tools. And honestly, I can't remember if I ever worked on a wood-framed building. Not a lot of skyscrapers use timber."

They managed to get the tree tied to the back of Peter's snowmobile, but it was nearly eleven by the time they got back to the house. His mom was napping on the couch in the den and Neal was sitting in front of a crackling fire, sock-clad feet propped up on an ottoman. It was a peaceful and homey scene.

"All hail the conquering heroes. You've slain a tree?" Neal was keeping his voice pitched low, so not to wake his mother.

"Yes, the tree has been slain and its carcass dragged back for your approval."

Neal chuckled and got up, shoving his feet into a pair of slippers, and headed towards the kitchen. "Do you need help?"

"Nope, Dad's re-trimming the trunk - I sort of messed it up. Any chance there's anything left for breakfast? I'm starving."

"Actually, we waited for you."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously. Your mom wasn't hungry and suggested we hold off until you get back." Neal started pulling various breakfast items out of the fridge. Peter noticed that the table was already set.

"Sorry we took so long. Apparently I should not pursue a second career in the forestry industry."

Neal laughed, startled by the non sequitur. "We'll have breakfast and decorate the tree afterwards."

"Sounds good. I'll go make sure my dad isn't killing himself with that hacksaw and then wash up."

Peter went back outside. And no, his dad wasn't killing himself with the hacksaw. He'd managed to trim the trunk Peter had botched and cut back some of the branches. Peter asked, "You need any help?"

"Nah - I'll be in in a few."

"They waited with breakfast for us. Neal's getting it ready now."

"Ah, sounds good. Is your mom up?"

"She's napping on the couch."

"Good." His dad waved him off and Peter returned to the house. It took a few minutes to wash up and change out of the bulky sweater he'd put on into the soft blue cashmere pullover that Neal had packed for him. Peter had to laugh. A quarter of a century and his partner still kept trying to dress him like a Ken doll.

Not that he minded.

As he came out of the bedroom, he passed his dad, who now had a worried expression on his face. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Why?"

"You look, well - not so happy anymore."

His dad grimaced. "Sorry. I was just lost in thought. Everything's okay."

Peter didn't believe him. "You sure?"

"Peter, I'm positive. Let me go change. Neal and your mom are cooking up a feast worthy of us proud and hungry tree killers."

He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to challenge his dad. "All right. See you in a few."

The scene in the kitchen was one of domestic bliss. Neal had several pans going and the scent of frying bacon and sausage was making his mouth water. His mother greeted him with a smile and a much needed cup of coffee. The horrible stuff his dad had made for their trek had been consumed and reprocessed hours ago. He took a sip and it tasted like bliss. "Thank you."

"I can't take credit for it. Neal made it, he knows how particular you are about your coffee."

"Neal's the coffee snob in the household, I just reap the benefits."

Neal chuckled. "Eh, I'm not so sure about that. I seem to remember someone pitching a fit when we were all out of Italian Roast."

Peter ignored the comment and gave his mom a kiss. "How are you feeling today?"

"Today, I'm feeling good. Strong as an ox." She lifted her arm and gave a classic body builder pose.

"That's some bicep."

"Ready to burst through the seams." She tucked her arm through his and steered him over to the breakfast nook. "Tell me how you're doing."

Peter looked over at Neal, who was absorbed in his cooking - managing the various pots and pans. But Neal looked up and smiled and Peter felt his heart warm. This is always how it had been between them. Just a glance would set his world right.

"Peter?" He could hear the laughter in his mother's voice.

"What?"

"Nothing." She was smiling as she shook her head.

"Mom?"

"It's like the two of you are still in the first throws of new love. It's so wonderful to see."

Peter felt himself blushing, but this wasn't anything he hadn't heard before - at least from his friends. From his mother, it was different. "I know."

She took pity on him. "So, tell me what's going on. Any exciting cases you can discuss?"

"Sadly, no."

"Nothing you can tell me about?"

"No, nothing exciting lately. Just stacks of mortgage fraud and identity theft cases. Securities fraud. Nothing that I can't turn over to the probies and junior agents. Which leaves me with the even less exciting budgets and staffing reports."

Neal came over with the first of many plates of food. "That's really not true. You cracked the Petersen case."

Peter laughed. "Cracked wouldn't really be the right word. More like succumbed."

His mother asked, "Why do I remember hearing about this years ago?"

"Because you probably did. It's like a case out of a Dickens novel - it's been hanging around for almost ten years. We would get close enough to bring an indictment and the defendant's lawyers would pull some rabbit out of a hat and get everything postponed. It was ridiculous."

"So, what happened?"

"The Justice Department decided they wanted the whole thing to go away, and to save face at the same time. I found something of a smoking gun on one of the minor charges. The defendant pleaded guilty, paid a fine and we closed the whole file. Tens of thousands of investigation hours spend and the government settles for a twenty-thousand dollar fine. That barely covers the accumulated overtime by the administrative assistants."

"But it's still a win," his mother noted. "Still a check mark in the right column."

"Exactly. That's what I've been telling Peter." Neal brought over another few plates of food.

"What have you been telling Peter?" His dad joined the mix.

Neal answered, "To take what victories you can get, no matter how small they might seem."

"Very wise."

Breakfast, or more accurately at this hour, brunch, was a convivial affair. Still, Peter couldn't help but notice how little his mother ate. A mouthful of eggs, a single bite of toast, and a slice of strawberry. He wanted to comment, but didn't.

There wasn't any point to it.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Vermont, Christmas Morning**

Since yesterday morning, Neal felt like he'd been holding his breath, waiting for disaster to happen. Waiting for Cathy to collapse again, for Uncle Joe to break down. Watching the two of them, with the knowledge he had now, he could see the toll that Cathy's illness had taken on Peter's father.

Uncle Joe was doing his best to mask his own agony, and he was doing a good job of it. To Neal's eyes, he seemed brittle, his smiles touched with pain. His laughter covering his fear. Thankfully, Peter didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary - or at least he didn't act like he did. They'd been through this - _this_ being Cathy's battle with lymphoma - before. Since her initial diagnosis four years ago, Peter had vowed to treat his mother like normal. Like she wasn't sick. Like death wasn't hovering.

Neal couldn't help but take pride in Peter's approach. Maybe it was something he'd learned from that terrifying interlude in their lives, when a simple needle stick became a shadow over everything they did, when they lived by a calendar marked off in red. They'd walked through fire together, and maybe this was the residue - refined and pure.

But he couldn't seem to manage the same level of grace, not anymore. Perhaps it was the terrible knowledge he had, the truth that Cathy had asked him to hide for just a little while.

Neal hated lying, even lying by omission. But Cathy asked so little of him and she'd given him so much that he couldn't deny her request. So he couldn't talk to Peter, he couldn't share this burden.

Mother and son were sitting in the breakfast nook, looking at the photo album she'd put together for them as a Christmas present.

Neal watched from a distance, his heart too heavy to join them and pretend that everything was all right.

"Thank you." He hadn't realized that Uncle Joe was standing at his side.

"Thank you for what?"

"Not saying anything."

Neal nodded.

"Cathy wants this to be a happy day. She doesn't want Peter to associate Christmas with death."

"I know, she told me that."

"But it's unfair. At least to you."

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "She hadn't meant to say anything."

"No, but she did. And now you're carrying the burden."

"I'm strong."

"Oh, that I know. There's no one stronger, not even my son."

Neal shot Uncle Joe a sharp look.

"Peter is a wonderful man, and I am proud of him. But sometimes he doesn't always see below the surface. Maybe because he's never really had to. "

"I don't understand - Peter sees more than anyone I know. He's one of the finest agents in the Bureau."

Uncle Joe shook his head. "That's not what I mean. I'm not explaining myself too well. You know what it's like to lose someone. First your father, then your security before you were thirteen. Your aunt turned away from you. Your mother forgot what was the most important thing of all. Pain like that teaches you to see into the shadows. To see what people desperately need to hide."

Neal gasped at the laser-like accuracy of that. "And sometimes Peter doesn't see that - at least not personally."

"I think that's why the two of you are so perfect together."

Neal ducked his head, unaccountably embarrassed. "We are."

At that moment, Peter looked up and caught Neal's eye. "What plans are the two of you hatching?"

Uncle Joe replied for both of them, "You're better off not knowing."

Peter just laughed. "Come here, you should see this."

Neal sat down at the table and Peter slid the album over to him. The photographs documented their lives together. Somehow, Cathy had taken pictures of the two of them from their early childhood - candid shots of them playing in the schoolyard, in grade school recitals, separate but still together. Pictures of them before they were _them_.

"These are incredible."

Cathy smiled and brushed her fingers over a page. "It's amazing how close you were back then and you didn't even know it."

Neal looked in wonder. He remembered some of these moments. "This was early learners French, right?" He was looking at a photo of them sitting at the same table, heads bent over a shared textbook. He was about seven, so Peter must have been eight. Until fifth grade, Peter had been a year ahead of him. But they had had some elective classes together, even in elementary school.

Peter commented, "It's amazing what the camera sees."

"You'd think we were best friends from this picture." They were sitting so close, their postures almost identical, their expressions almost identical.

"It's funny to think that we almost had to live as many years as we'd been alive before that happened." Neal looked up at Peter, his gaze softening - seeing both the man he'd been friends with for over thirty years and the boy he'd once idolized. "I wanted to be your friend. Even back then."

"You did?"

"Yeah - but you were older. Didn't think you'd want to hang with a little kid. And you had friends."

"No, I had _a_ friend - Phil the Pill. He smelled like poop."

"Peter!" Cathy slapped lightly at her son. "That's not nice. He just wasn't very bright."

"That's no excuse for smelling like poop. And he was mean. He would deliberately break my toys. Or steal them."

Neal was taken back to that day. "Remember, he spiked Mozzie in the face during a dodge ball game. You beat him up for that." Neal leaned into Peter. "My hero."

They flipped through the pages. Most of these pictures were in black and white, but that wasn't surprising. Cathy had studied photography in college and through their childhood was rarely without her camera. When he and Peter were in ninth grade, Uncle Joe had built a dark room for her so she could control the process from start to finish.

Many of the photos were of them on every Christmas morning, from the time they were twelve and thirteen, respectively. Opening presents, chilling out with new toys, playing games, or as they got older and books became more requested gifts than toys, images of them reading side by side.

But there was one photo that made both of them gasp. It was an image of the two of them, sharing a bed. They were wrapped in each other's arms, Neal’s head buried in Peter's shoulder, Peter's face tucked between his own neck and shoulder, and Peter's arm curved protectively around his back. The sheets had been pushed down, making it clear that they were both fully clad in pajamas. From the breadth of Peter's shoulders and his own fairly thin frame, Neal would say they must have been in their early twenties at the latest.

"When did you take this?"

Cathy smiled. "That first Christmas."

The light of memory dawned. "The year we came out. That Christmas Eve." So much had happened in such a short space of time, he'd forgotten that Cathy had Uncle Joe put the second bed back in Peter's bedroom, so the two of them could sleep together in comfort.

"I'd gone in to check on you in the morning. A mother's prerogative."

Peter shook his head, amused. "With your camera?"

"Not until I saw the both of you clinging to each other. I wanted to preserve that moment forever."

Neal found himself on the edge of tears again. "This is beautiful. Do you still have the negative?"

"Of course."

He looked over at Peter. "I'd like to have a print made - a big one. For that space over the bedroom fireplace. Replace that faux Monet."

"You painted that Monet, I like it."

"It's pretty mediocre." He and Peter had had this argument for years.

"Do you really want a picture of _us_ in our bedroom?"

"Why not?"

Peter's laughter warmed him. They'd argue about it, but eventually, Peter would give in. If just because it was something _he_ wanted.

Peter turned to the next page of the album - there were matching photos of each of them as they were graduating from the FBI training academy. "We were so young."

Apropos of nothing, Neal said, "You know, I think I still have that suit."

"You still have _all_ of your suits. Which isn't fair."

Uncle Joe asked, "Why not?"

Neal cut Peter off. "Because Peter has terrible taste in suits. He buys them off the rack from Brooks Brothers and he doesn't get them tailored. I let him wear them for two seasons and then they get bagged for good will."

"They're classics."

"No, they are not. They are cheap and ill-fitting and ugly. Nothing classic about them at all."

He and Peter happily bickered over Peter's wardrobe choices. It was an easy way to deflect from the sadness that the nostalgia brought.

The day might have been spent looking at pictures and reminiscing, but Cathy started to cough. And she couldn't stop. Uncle Joe held her, rubbing her back through the spasms while he and Peter watched in helpless horror. Cathy was gasping between the coughs but she couldn't seem to breathe, her lips were turning blue from the lack of oxygen.

"There's a small oxygen tank in our bedroom, someone get it, now!" Uncle Joe commanded and Neal ran through the house. He had carried it in when they'd arrived, and when he'd commented, Cathy had just laughed it off as a precaution by her overprotective doctors.

By the time he'd gotten back to the kitchen, Cathy had stopped coughing, but there was a tiny trickle of blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. She wiped it away, but not before everyone noticed. Uncle Joe set the oxygen mask on her face and the crisis seemed to pass. Cathy sat there breathing quietly.

Neal reached out and took Peter's hand, needing him, needing to give comfort as they watched and waited.

After a few minutes, Cathy lifted the mask. "I think I need to go lie down. Joe - would you help me?"

Uncle Joe helped Cathy to her feet and shouldered the small oxygen tank. "Where to? The living room or the bedroom?"

"The bedroom - the fire is making the room very dry, I think that's what set me off."

Neal watched helplessly as Uncle Joe slowly walked with Cathy towards the bedroom. She was shuffling her feet, as if she didn't have the strength to pick them up. She probably didn't.

He and Peter followed Peter's parents, as if to make sure that they didn't get lost, that nothing terrible happened on the short journey. Neal gave a silent prayer of thanks that he'd had two master bedrooms suites put in on the ground floor. He didn't think that Cathy would have been able to climb the stairs, even before this episode.

Finally, Cathy and Uncle Joe made it to their bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Neal looked at Peter and said, "I think we need to go back to New York today."

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**The Day After Christmas**

Despite Neal's suggestion that they go back to New York on Christmas Day, they stayed in Vermont until the next morning. His mother hadn't wanted to leave early, but it was his father who was the one who convinced them that leaving now would be a bad idea.

"She's just not up to sitting for six and a half hours in a car right now. She'll be okay in the morning. Just let your mother rest. We'll go home tomorrow, as planned."

Peter had no choice but to agree. Neal, bless him, had offered to arrange for a Medi-flight transport, but his father smiled and told him that they were blowing things out of proportion. They'd spent the rest of the day quietly worrying, but by early evening, his mother emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed, with her wig on. She made some really bad jokes about hairballs and everyone pretended that everything was normal.

After dinner, Neal started dismantling the Christmas tree that they'd decorated yesterday. Both his parents protested.

Peter explained, "We've decided that we're going to stay in New York for the rest of the week." He and Neal had discussed it last night. Originally, they were going to drive his parents back to their condo in Dobbs Ferry, spend the night in White Plains, and head back to Vermont in the morning for the rest of the week. But it didn't seem right to be so far away, not now.

Neal added, "The management company will take care of the tree, but I don't want them to handle the ornaments." None of them were particularly fragile, but they were precious - beloved relics from a happy childhood, a happy marriage.

His parents had given him and Neal the entire collection when they'd sold the house in Brookville Falls a few years ago.

Cathy sighed. "I really wish you wouldn't change your plans. I'm fine."

He desperately wanted to believe his mother. He wanted to believe that the coughing and the blood and the weakness, the lack of appetite, were nothing more than side effects from her treatment, not signs of something worse. As much as he had been looking forward to a week in the country, doing nothing more strenuous than walking in the woods or making love with Neal, he didn't feel at all right about staying in Vermont. He was relieved when Neal insisted that they wouldn't be coming back tomorrow.

A little after ten that morning, the house closed up and instructions left for the management company to dispose of the tree and prepare the place for the renters who'd be coming in the next week or so, they left Vermont.

The drive back to New York was uneventful, but Peter couldn't shake the melancholy as they left the snowy forests and mountains of New England and upstate New York for the gray and brown landscape of the downstate counties. They got to Dobbs Ferry a little before four. An intermittent drizzle obscured the weak sunlight, added to the gloom.

Neal was as reluctant as Peter was to leave his folks and go back to Manhattan. "Do you need us to get anything? Go grocery shopping? Maybe make dinner?"

His mother just laughed. "I'm okay - you're really making mountains out of molehills. It wasn't as if we were gone for days. I've got a refrigerator stocked full of food and your father is more than competent to go shopping tomorrow if there's anything we need." She kissed Neal and then him and pushed them towards the door. "This is supposed to be your vacation, so go vacate."

They both laughed at his mother's bad joke, but made their farewells. Peter didn't say anything, but planned to come back tomorrow and have a serious talk with his father. He couldn't escape the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

As they got closer to Manhattan, the weather started to clear. The traffic was light and they pulled up to the front of their building on Riverside Drive a little after six. Marco, the doorman on duty, unpacked the car for them and called for a valet to take the car down to the garage.

For almost as long as Peter could remember, this place had been a welcome shelter - first from danger, then from their own demons. Behind the doors, they could be themselves, they could love freely and joyfully during a time when much of the world frowned upon their relationship. But today, it didn't feel like shelter, it felt like a prison.

Neal finished putting away the food they had taken home and gave him a worried look. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Nothing seems to feel right."

Neal didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he asked, "Do you want to go for a walk?"

Peter nodded. Without a word, they put on their coats and headed out. Peter remembered walking like this on the nights before Neal had gone for each of the follow up HIV tests. They'd walked like this when Neal had been offered a promotion - in D.C. And a year later, when he had been given a similar opportunity.

Without a word, they headed towards Riverside Park. It was quiet, but not abandoned. Despite the winter chill, there were other people walking, joggers and even a few cyclists. They reached the Soldiers and Sailors Monument and Peter climbed to the top step and sat down. Neal joined him and took his hand. Peter looked up; the moon was like a bright toy, forever out of reach.

He let out a shuddering breath and asked, "My mother's dying, isn't she?"

Neal didn't answer, he just wrapped his arms around him and Peter buried his face in Neal's neck, crying silently against the truth he hadn't wanted to see, but could no longer deny.

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FIN


End file.
